Lazy Afternoon
by absolutelycancerous
Summary: "You can't not dance to 'Lazy Afternoon'."


They're doing dishes together with the radio on in the other room (only because their TV is currently sitting next to the front door to be taken down to the dumpster for it completely broke the other night, piece of crap) because the apartment seemed too quiet, and having a little music in the background of things is never too bad.

They change in picking the station (for this has been the situation for almost a week) every day, and today is a Sunday, which means it's Soul's turn; he picks some station that plays a horribly-assorted variation of jazz and classical music, just because it's something to keep the silence from biting at them, and it's much better than some of the _other_ kinds of music he could force them to endure the whole day.

Tonight, Maka's washing and Soul's drying, mechanic in their motions as she scrubs a plate clean and hands it to him to dry and place away. Again and again, and it's not like it's bad, it's actually a bit nice to have normalcy in their usually-chaotic lives, even if it comes in the form of a rather repetitive chore.

Soul smiles when he hears a little _clink!_ in the sink basin, and watches Maka gasp as she quickly yanks her hand up to widdle off her priceless (not really, more like _plain_) engagement ring, and place it carefully on the window sill before she continues cleaning. She's positively adorable.

He hears familiar chords begin to play from the other room, and then the very voice that got him into a certain man's music (his true inspiration) at age six, and quickly grins as he dries the bowl in his hand and hurriedly sets it aside before tapping Maka's elbow and stepping back from the sink.

"Dry your hands, c'mon," he tells her, smiling when she looks a little concerned, then just downright confused as she takes his discarded dish towel and dries her hands off, dry hands which Soul quickly take in his own before she can even _put the towel down_, and tugs her away from the counter.

"You can't _not_ dance to 'Lazy Afternoon'."

Maka frowns. Brightens, and then blushes. "The song, you mean?"

What _else_ could he mean? He nods, anyway.

Her hands are still warm from the water, and Soul casually takes up her one while place her other around his neck—she's always been hopeless with dancing. He settles his hand (modestly!) on the small of her back, and it's probably some kind of deep, meaningful sign from the heavens that they fit so perfectly together, like her head reaching the bottom of his chin, or his hand fitting perfectly against the little curve into her back.

She awkwardly looks down at their feet at first, making sure she's not stepping on him, but that prevents them from dancing close to each other, so Soul gives her face some pecks of kisses in order to make her look up at him, and sighs playfully at her when she looks at him with curiosity.

"Don't _look_."

"But I'll mess up."

Her personal strides towards perfect are going to be the death of him one day, he's positive.

"You're doing fine right now, aren't you?"

She's surprised, realizing she hasn't looked down in about thirty seconds and they're not stumbling over one another. Smiling with confidence, she looks at _him_ instead, bringing her hand a little firmer around the back of his neck. Soul pulls her closer, until they're front-to-front, and it's not a lascivious movement so much as it is one of simple enjoyment, a primal instinct to want to be together.

They sway in-time to the music, foot to foot, Soul humming quietly along with the feminine voice on the lyrics—Bill Evans and Lucy Reed make an incredible team. Maka finds herself leaning into him more and more, until her cheek presses against Soul's chest and it's mostly him swaying them in slow, rhythmic circles about the kitchen. He smells like laundry detergent and dish soap and **home**, and she likes the feeling of his voice in his chest as he murmurs the words she doesn't know right against the top of her head, into her hair. His thumb pets her hand slowly, until he just sets it on his shoulder so she can loop her arms around his neck and he can rest his other hand on her waist, petting her sides comfortingly _just because he wants to hold her. _It's an amazing feeling.

He kisses the top of her head in the pauses of the music, the "_ba-dum… tah..._" of the piano that Soul seems to know by absolute heart, for she feels his fingers pressing her skin a little like how he'd play the keys on the piano; he's so very cute. Nuzzles her hair, mumbles how much he loves her right against the top of her ear hidden by a sheet of her dishwater-blonde hair (Soul gets a little upset when she calls it that; says it's more like antique gold, not nearly as ugly as **dishwater**).

"Who is this?"

He responds in the middle of a lyric, "Lucy Reed," and continues; he's not bad at singing, but it makes her smiles nonetheless.

Maka nuzzles against his chest, stepping slowly with him to the rest of the song. They dance until quite a time after Lazy Afternoon draws its final chords, but Maka doesn't protest such, merely lets Soul dote on her in silence.

It's a welcomed feeling.


End file.
